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“A man? Not men?”

“Jesus.” Bridget shuddered. “It’s going to take me a while to work up to that little detail. She went seriously ballistic over me moving to Saratoga. Not sure how I’ll break the threesome deal to her.”

“You know, there’s a newspaper in Saratoga. Maybe you can be the What to Do This Weekend girl here.”

They both laughed and she shook her head. “That would be a damn short column.”

“And the same every week,” Rodney joked. “So have you given any thought to what you want to do?” He’d spent every waking moment of the last week trying to figure out his future. He glanced at his bandaged arm, and felt the now-familiar pang of fear that never completely went away grip him again. It had consumed him ever since the bullet pierced his flesh. Caleb told him he may never regain full use of the arm. He swallowed heavily. What if the hand remained paralyzed? What good was a one-armed cop? No good. In the blink of an eye, his career had been destroyed. Depression wafted through him once more. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

“Actually…” Bridget looked at him out of the corner of her eye and he braced himself. She obviously had a scheme in the works. “I was toying with the idea of trying a different kind of writing.”

“Other than journalism?”

She nodded. “I talked to Matt and Mark about it and they were completely supportive.”

“What kind of writing?”

“I want to write a novel—a romantic suspense.”

Bridget seemed to prepare herself for his teasing, but it was perfect for her. He was amazed by her resilience and creativity. Two days out of work and she’d come up with a plan. If anyone could succeed at that career, it was Bridget. He was jealous of her confidence, her willingness to put herself out there and try something new.

“I think that sounds awesome.”

“Really?” she asked, sitting up straighter. “Because I’m planning to make the first one a sort of fictionalized account of our experiences. I’ve already decided I’m dedicating the book to you and Lyle.”

A book? Dedicated to him? “Cool.”

Bridget turned on the swing, so that she was facing him. He was slightly uncomfortable under her scrutiny. “Rodney?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

He wanted to lie. It was on the tip of his tongue to give the standard I’m fine response. He couldn’t do it. For one thing, Bridget would see right through it, and for another, he wasn’t fine. He wasn’t even close to that.

He shook his head. “Not really. I’m fucked up, kitten.” He swallowed heavily, a lump forming in his throat. He gestured to his injured arm. “What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

“What do you want to do?”

He was confused by her question. “What do you mean?”

“You need to go through physical therapy for your arm, right?”

He nodded.

“Are you going to do that?”

“Of course I am.”

“Why?” she asked. “You sound to me like you’ve already written that arm off.”

He scowled and started to deny her assertion. He shut his mouth instead. Hard to argue against the truth. He’d been throwing the mother of all pity parties for himself this week.

“Rodney, you’re young, brave, strong and one of the most determined people I’ve ever met. If anyone can make a miracle, it’s you.”

“You’re being persuasive again.”

She laughed. “Nope, this is one of those times when I’m being right. You always mix those up.”